Where I cannot, you have gone.
You’ll not come smiling back at dawn,
However long I linger here.
But night will pass, and I will see
The sun and morning on the trees
And know, though gone, you are yet near.
Now my own path calls and I must go,
Though, like you, I don’t wish it so.
But what of that? It’s not a choice.
Still, if a parting word were mine
To send to you, I would not pine,
But say instead in quiet voice,
Fare thee well, my friend,
Fare thee well.
——————-
For Sally
Dijon, 08/08/16
st
Ave, Atque, Vale
by the Roman poet, Catullus 84 B.C. to 54 B.C.
Many the races and many the waters I have crossed
Coming, my brother, to these sad funeral rites
In order to give you the final duties owed the dead
And speak in vain to your unspeaking ash
Since fortune has stolen you, you from me,
O brother, forlorn and wrongly torn from me.
But, for now, for the meantime, in the ancient manner
Receive these gifts, sad duty handed down for funeral rites,
Though they flow with many a brotherly tear,
And forever and ever, hail, brother, and farewell. (poem 101)
Words can only ever approximate the depth of connection possible between two beings. That’s what poetry does, approximate…the best comes closest. But in the end, I think it can only be felt, not described. Perhaps that’s why both of these poems are really about separation. The emotion behind them is implicit.
I came to the conclusion some years ago that the ultimate meaning of life is other people. To those who think they know me well, who have observed my tendency to solitude, this will seem at best bizarre and at worst dishonest. But that would be because they don’t truly know me, nor the true depths of existential aloneness (and yes, loneliness). How many people, after all, actually do?
But safety and solace–and perhaps most importantly, peace–lie in the rare person or persons with whom we have found communion. That’s why loss and separation is so wrenching.
Thanks, Michael.